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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28011843">Merry Christmas, Malfoy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikenz/pseuds/magikenz'>magikenz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:47:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,727</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28011843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikenz/pseuds/magikenz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve Rooney is home from Hogwarts for the holidays, which means she's spending Christmas and New Years at her grandparent's cottage. Unfortunately, her grandparent's cottage sits right next to the imposing Malfoy Manor. What happens when Eve is forced to spend time with Draco?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Original Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stepping off the Hogwarts Express, I fall right into my mother's arms. Smiling into her shoulder I give her a long squeeze, my suitcase and empty owl cage thunking to the station floor beside me. "Hi," I mumble. </p><p>"My darling! How are you?" </p><p>I step back and flick a stray curl out of my eyes. "I'm okay. Exams were awful." </p><p>"Ah but now they're over and you can be in the Christmas spirit!" She seizes my suitcase and links an arm through mine. "You must tell me everything about your semester." </p><p>"As if I didn't send Star bearing numerous chunky letters." </p><p>"Did you," she asks. "I didn't receive them." </p><p>"Your prompt responses beg to differ." </p><p>The corner of her mouth lifts. "Alas I've been bested, but I admit I cannot remember every single detail of each epistle." </p><p>"Then read the letters you saved." </p><p>She pokes me in the side. "You will give me a full reenactment of the highs and lows of your fourth year of magical school or I will pack you off to Azkaban before you can blink." </p><p>"I'll give the hardened criminals your regards." We stop on the curb outside King's Cross, the wind playing with my curls and twirling the ends of mum's braids. I wrinkle my brow. "What are we waiting for?"</p><p>She bites her lip. "Um. Well." </p><p>I glance over her shoulder and spot her tiny black Mini Cooper idling in front of the building. The driver must be waiting for us because the car moves slowly forward until it's directly beside us. A man about my height appears at mum's elbow. Straw blond hair pokes out from under his gray newsboy hat, and matching stubble glimmers above his red and green plaid scarf. </p><p>"Eve this is Ben," mum says. </p><p>Ben sticks his hand out and I take it mutely, trying not to stare. Of all the men my mother could decide to bring home---a short Muggle? </p><p>"It's nice to meet you, Eve," Ben is saying. "Your mother has told me so much about you." </p><p>I raise an eyebrow. "It's nice to meet you," I say lamely. </p><p>
  <em>Everything about me, huh? Did she mention that last year my boarding school taught us to ride magical bird-horse things? Or that the personification of depression stood guard around the perimeter to keep away a mass murderer? </em>
</p><p>He clears his throat in the beat of silence. "I'll--let me put these in the boot." </p><p>"Sure," I mutter. </p><p>Mum watches him loading my suitcase and owl cage into the back, eyes sparkling. I poke her in the shoulder and the sparkle dims. </p><p>"Why didn't you tell me about him," I whisper.  </p><p>"I wanted it to be a surprise." </p><p>I grin. "Well it's a good surprise, but does he...you know."</p><p>"No." </p><p>I frown. "Do you think that's a good idea?" </p><p>"We've only been dating since September! I didn't think it would be a good idea to introduce <em>everything</em> so quickly." </p><p>"I understand," I say, monitoring him with one eye. He seems to have noticed the urgency of our conversation because he's waiting on the other side of the Mini, hands buried in his pockets and eyes trained on the passing traffic. I take a breath. "Well, I'm sure it shouldn't be hard to keep it a secret. I mean, it's only for a few weeks and then I'm back at school and he's none the wiser." </p><p>I'm expecting her to agree with me quickly, so when she doesn't, my eyes bounce to hers. They look wary, sparkle completely quashed in the face of some new anxiety. My stomach gurgles uncomfortably as I realize--"No. No way." </p><p>"They have to meet him sometime," she says. </p><p>"<em>Mother</em>." </p><p>"They have to meet him at some point," she repeats, slightly exasperated. </p><p>I swallow and lower my voice further. "You cannot mean to tell me that you have decided to bring an unsuspecting <em>Muggle </em>to Christmas at the grandparent's cottage. The magical grandparents?" </p><p>"What other grandparents would we visit?" </p><p>"I just want you to hear your own thought process from another perspective." </p><p>"I'm bringing him to Christmas because he needs to meet my parents and that's what normal people do." </p><p>"We are not normal, and you are attempting to turn us into a lame Christmas romcom." </p><p>"Everything usually works out for Kate Winslett and Cameron Diaz." </p><p>"Except this is not <em>The Holiday </em>this is <em>The Family Stone </em>and he is about to be the Sarah Jessica Parker to your Dermot Mulroney." </p><p>She chews her bottom lip and glances at him, her gaze softening a bit. "I really like him." </p><p>I sigh. "Fine. I'll help you attempt to deceive everyone we love this Christmas in the name of love." </p><p>She squeezes my shoulder, completely missing, or maybe ignoring, the sarcasm. "Perfect." </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My grandparents have a snug stone cottage in the country, away from the noise, smog, and Muggles of London. The only reason that it is described as "snug" is because it is dwarfed by the ridiculous size of the other wizarding mansions in the neighborhood; in reality, it is a normal home. When I was going through my Jane Austen phase, the idyllic beauty of the surrounding country was the backdrop in my fantasies of meeting a magical Mr. Darcy who would carry me away to a whimsical Pemberley. But the only eligible man nearby is Draco Malfoy, and I would rather chat about Lady Catherine with the intolerable Mr. Collins before I ever spent time with him. </p><p>I let my eyes linger on Malfoy Manor's imposing turrets and ramparts as we curl along the property's border in mum's cheerful sky blue mini. Skeletal trees line the walking path that follows the road, clawing at the stiff gray sky as if they want to wrap themselves in shredded clouds. I crane my neck to see if the peacocks are out, but the rolling lawns are devoid of color and squawking today.</p><p>My grandparents are standing in the drive when we arrive. I take a sip of water and take my time screwing the cap on, mentally rehearsing what I'd discussed with mum last night. It seems she does the same; she reaches for Ben's free hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze over the console. I watch his eyes shift to hers in the rearview. They soften, and I stifle a snort. This man has no idea what he's signed himself up for. </p><p>My boots hit the gravel before the mini completely stops. "Gran!" I throw my arms around her and give her a hug identical to the one I gave mum at the station. Granddad waits for me to step back before giving me the firm handshake he always does; he's not a physical touch person. "How have you been?" </p><p>"Oh fine, fine. Your granddad bruised his bum last weekend trying to clear out the gutters by himself. I told him, Paul, dear, you <em>must </em>look up a spell for it, but no he <em>insists </em>on doing it the non-magical way as if that will help him in his department at the ministry. And the garden gnomes are back again. I think the Malfoys send them over to torture us. But what are you doing here so late, and driving in the mini? Has your mother forgotten how to apparate?" </p><p>I press my lips together at the mention of spells and gnomes, but before I can say something to divert their attention, Granddad clears his throat. Gran looks over my shoulder and must notice Ben for the first time, because her spine stiffens, drawing her to her full height before me. She steps around me like I've been stupefied. </p><p>Mum stands a foot from her boyfriend, as if familiarity has suddenly become indecent. "Dad." She makes eye contact with Gran. "Mother. This is Ben Tallis. Ben, these are my parents, Evelyn and Paul." </p><p>"It's nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs.--" But here he breaks off, glances at mum. </p><p>"Rooney," Gran supplies, offering her hand like it's a waterlogged olive branch.</p><p>Granddad pumps Ben's arm as if testing its elasticity, his eyes roving over the mini and our strained faces. </p><p>Ben Tallis is the first man my mother has brought to the grandparents' in seven years, and certainly the first non-magical person to step over this threshold in, well, ever. It occurs to me that Ben is an intrepid explorer, sallying into an unknown that has remained uncharted for the last thousand years. He's unraveled the mystery of Stone Henge. He's gotten photo evidence of the Loch Ness monster. He's just blissfully unaware of his position. </p><p>In an attempt to escape more awkwardness, at least for the moment, I haul my stuff up the narrow stairs. Safely on the upper floor, I pull my wand out of my pocket and point it at the cumbersome suitcase. It levitates up the steps to the bonus room--a converted attic--and onto the waiting canopy bed with ease. I settle next to it, letting my shoulders relax a bit as I look around my home away from home. When mum left dad, this was our safe house. A place we could come while mum looked for a new flat and tried to turn herself into a career woman. </p><p>I savor the silence for what seems like ages. The car ride had been stressful, and I am reluctant to enter the minefield again so soon. Instead, I occupy myself with putting away my clothes, flicking my wand at each item until they've hung themselves neatly in the cream wardrobe. My attire is mostly Slytherin themed due to mum's obsession with buying me anything in green, silver, and black. Almost all my socks have snakes on them. Even my underwear is either black or green. Things properly sorted, I swap my cozy sweater and jeans combo for a baggy hoodie and matching track bottoms.  </p><p>I pass mum's room and notice the door is slightly ajar. Poor Ben paces back and forth before the opening, unpacking his things and--I'm assuming--trying his best not to stop, sneak onto the landing, and listen for any derogatory references to himself. I rap on the doorframe, and he whirls as if he's been caught stealing. I grin.  </p><p>"Sorry," he gasps. "I'm a bit on edge." </p><p>"Meeting the parents is a big step," I say. </p><p>He chuckles, "Yes, well. It's been quite a minute since I've had to, er, make an impression. I feel like I'm fifteen." </p><p>"Hey, I don't hear any sirens or smell any smoke yet. I'd say you're doing great." </p><p>He ducks his head, and I leave him to his sweaters. </p><p>I find them sitting in the breakfast nook, mum on one side looking peevish while the grandparents are stone-faced on the other. The boiling kettle seizes its opportunity and bleats at me to take it off the heat. I oblige.</p><p>"I just can't believe you thought it was a good idea to bring a strange Muggle into this home," my grandmother hisses. Her jaw is clenched, her palms flat on the table as she leans forward to be heard over my thunderous tea making. "We are magical, Georgina." </p><p>So I guess hiding Ben's identity from the grandparents is over. A bit of the pressure in my chest eases.</p><p>Mum's watch flashes as she checks it. "Good on you, mum, it's been about five minutes since you used that line." </p><p>"Do not talk to your mother that way," Graddad barks. </p><p>Mum leans back against the floral cushions. "Lovely timing, you two. A few decades of parenting have really turned the good cop/bad cop routine into a well oiled machine." </p><p>I stir sugar into my tea, wishing that it was firewhisky. Or arsenic. </p><p>"Why can't you be happy for me," mum asks. </p><p>"Honestly, Georgina," Gran says. "Did you really think that bringing a Muggle here would be anything but dangerous? At best, he will have to be <em>obliviated </em>and turned back out into society, but at worse, the Malfoys find out, there will be a scandal, and he will still be <em>obliviated</em>." </p><p>"No one will be using the <em>obliviate </em>charm on my boyfriend," mum says. "And why do the Malfoys enter into every decision the two of you make?" </p><p>"We practically live in their backyard," Granddad points out. "And they will make your mother's life <em>hell </em>at work." </p><p>"For what? Me dating a Muggle? What does that have to do with mum?" </p><p>"Georgina Rooney," my granddad shakes his head. "You are one of the most intelligent witches I know--" the sarcasm oozing from Graddad's words reminds my legs that they can indeed carry me away from this conflict, so I see myself into the living room. </p><p>Mum is grasping at straws now, and she knows it. She is also aware of the fact, however, that if even she doesn't win the argument, Gran and Granddad will let Ben stay. No one knows how to manipulate British politeness like my lovely mother. </p><p>Ben, thankfully, emerges after the conversation has ended. If he senses the tension in the air, he wades right through it and sits next to my mother on the sofa. Gran, enthroned in her recliner, is attempting to knit manually as Granddad pretends to be engrossed in some sort of Christmas program. </p><p>It takes me all of five minutes before I suggest to mum, "Why don't you take Ben and show him the village?" </p><p>That earns me an icy stare from both grandparents and a furrowed brow from mum.</p><p>"Or perhaps just a walk," I say. "Until dinner?" The question is addressed to Granddad. </p><p>"The roast will be ready in an hour." </p><p>When mum has led Ben, wrapped in wool and tweed, into the growing twilight, Gran waves her wand and the needles begin to church out an intricate scarf. I watch the tiny TV woman attempt to stuff a duck inside a turkey and wonder if Ben and that bird would benefit from swapping some stories. </p><p>"Did you know about this," gran demands without taking her eyes off the screen. </p><p>I shrug. "I met Ben today." I risk looking at them. "It can't be all bad can it? Christmas is in two weeks, and then we'll go home." </p><p>Granddad shakes his head. "Let's just hope Narcissa doesn't catch wind of this."  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I spear another sprout and lift it to my mouth, listening to my molars grind it into paste before swallowing because it's the only sound in the room besides the polite clinking of silverware on Gran's porcelain dishes. I spear another, inhaling and attempting conversation before popping it into my mouth. </p><p>"This is really great Granddad." </p><p>"Yes, wonderful," mum mutters around a piece of roast. </p><p>Ben nods. "Do you marinate the meat before cooking it?" </p><p>Granddad blinks at him mildly as if he's forgotten we have a guest. "No I do not marinate the meat." </p><p>This is the fourth version of this conversation we've had in the past hour. I swirl my mashed potatoes around my plate, reach for water. For a second I fantasize about letting a whole sprout lodge in my throat, just to provide some sort of diversion. Perhaps my tragic death would bring them together, or maybe they'd be just as polarized at my funeral. Either way, at least I'd be released from this awful tension. I force my eyes to focus on the remainder of my dinner so that I don't glare at Gran and Granddad for not making more of an effort with Ben. Sure, mum shouldn't have sprung him on them, and yes, bringing a Muggle into a magical neighborhood is a terrible idea, but why can't they make the best of it? Aren't they part of the Keep Calm and Carry On generation? </p><p>Ben dabs his mouth with a napkin. "I can clean up," he offers. His plate is still half full. </p><p>"I'll help," mum says. Hers is still piled high. </p><p>Before the grandparents can protest, she's whisked everyone's plates into the kitchen. Ben follows, laden with empty glasses and a serving dish. </p><p>"Where do you keep the soap," he asks over his shoulder. "There doesn't appear to be any." </p><p>Gran's eyes flash as if he's asked where we keep our bathroom waste. I shove myself to my feet. "I think it's in the hall." I force myself to walk nonchalantly into the corridor, throw open the closet doors, and lean inside. I reach for my wand and whisper a spell. A bottle of dish soap thunks onto the shelf followed by a blue scrub brush and a yellow sponge. Mum winks at me when I toss her the sponge, and I try to ignore Gran's glare. Daughter duty done, I sidle to the safety of my attic. </p><p>"<em>Accio </em>books," I mutter to my wand. I catch the heavy Transfiguration tome before it can splinter my nose, scanning the room for a good spot to study. I'm used to doing school work at the kitchen table in mum's London flat, and when we lived here, I did the same. But the table is currently a no fly zone, so I make do with a tiny vanity by pushing it under a window. The sky outside has already darkened, but tomorrow afternoon I should have the perfect amount of sunlight. I prop the book against the vanity's mirror, admiring the cover's reflection before summoning a few more study materials. </p><p>Normally I don't study over breaks, but I have advanced classes next term, and I refuse to emerge in the bottom half of my class. I barely scraped by this semester, and it was embarrassing; even Crabbe got a better grade in History of Magic than I did. This time, I'm determined to do better, especially since I have most of them with the great Hermione Granger. Whoever spread the rumor about her being the brightest witch of our age seems to have been correct. She can probably talk circles around most of the people I know, and it would all be pertinent, well-researched and interesting information. But surely I can give her some healthy competition. I mean, I'm not Goyle. </p><p>An hour or two later, my fingers are cramping from holding the quill. I flex them, bracing myself for more icy glares and unspoken malice as I venture down for water. This time, though, it's Gran and Granddad who have escaped to the village. </p><p>"They said they needed a breath of fresh air," mum explains. She sighs as I take a seat next to her on the couch. "God I need a smoke." </p><p>"It's fine. Christmas is soon." </p><p>Her hands tighten around her steaming mug of chai tea. "Two weeks." </p><p>"Well, this week is almost over, so technically we only have one and a half left." </p><p>She closes her eyes. "Okay no smoke, but perhaps a spa day?" </p><p>"I'd say you both deserve a massage after this." </p><p>"Who needs a massage?" Ben enters carrying another chai tea. </p><p>"You," mum says. "And me." </p><p>"My sister might know a good spa," he says. "We could go up after the new year." He settles next to mum and drapes an arm around her shoulders. </p><p>I watch her watch Ben and hide my own smile. She looks at once calm and exhilarated; her brown eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed slightly as if she's just gotten off a particularly fantastic rollercoaster. God I wish I had someone. She twirls a braid around her index finger, suddenly seventeen. </p><p>"We could go for New Year's Eve," mum muses. She raises an eyebrow at me, "Would you mind?" </p><p>I nod, "A trip could be good for us. I could use a facial, and you've been looking tense lately." </p><p>Mum purses her lips. </p><p>Ben leans forward, "I've heard mud baths are great for detoxes. You should try one, Eve." </p><p>"Thank you, I will," I tell him. I furrow my brow, "But while I'm busy, what will you two do?"</p><p>"Hit the gym," Ben says decisively. "I need to lose a little weight." </p><p>Mum frowns at us. "No fair. You aren't supposed to gang up on me." </p><p>I shrug, "I see nothing preventing this alliance." </p><p>Ben taps his nose and points at me. "Excellent point." He grins at mum. "Counter argument, my dear?" </p><p>Mum leans over and kisses him. </p><p>He clears his throat. "I rest my case. Spa day for two, motion carried." He bangs an imaginary gavel. </p><p>I laugh. We watch a few Christmas movies in comfortable silence; Macaulay Culkin manages to escape the Wet Bandits and been reunited with his family twice before I notice Ben's snoring. I glance over to see him fast asleep with his head on the back of the couch, mouth slightly open. Mum doesn't look much more awake; her head is cradled in the crook between his neck and shoulder, her eyes half open. They look so cozy it makes my stomach twist. I pull at my collar, suddenly realizing that the radiator is blazing. </p><p>"Hey," I whisper to mum. "I'm gonna step outside." </p><p>She nods sleepily. "Wrap up. Stay safe." </p><p>I decide to make the hike upstairs for warmer clothes. What if Ben had come into the hall and seen me <em>accio </em>my coat into my hand? Outside, a light snow has fallen, making everything within the glow of the house lights look like it's been dusted in sugar. Above me, stars wink and giggle together in the midnight blue dome. Somewhere nearby an owl hoots, disrupting the soft silence. If I stand here, back to the house with the snowy, hedge lined drive in front of me, it feels like a normal Christmas holiday. No conflict. Gran and Granddad went to the store to get baking supplies. Mum is inside wrapping presents at the last minute. Everything is fine. </p><p>A familiar crack brings me back to reality, and footsteps make my heart sink. <em>At least they had the decency to apparate halfway to the house and walk</em>. As soon as the thought materializes in my head, I feel sticky. Granddad is right, after all. The Malfoys are ignorant yet ruthless; if they get wind of Gran hosting a Muggle, they'll tear her reputation to ribbons. <em>Fucking blood-purists</em>. <em>What is this?  1980?  Is </em>this<em> what Harry Potter triumphed for? </em></p><p>Even so, the last thing I want to do is be seen by Gran and Granddad because then I'll have to go back inside and pretend nothing is wrong while Gran glares at me. So like the coward I am, I throw myself around the side of the house and press my back against the stone, feeling relieved but also idiotic as I wait for them to knock the snow off their boots and go inside. All I want is a little time away from the tension, but going back into my room so soon after studying feels just as cramped. <em>God! It's been one day--not even a whole day--and I'm already tapped out</em>. I hear the door shut and exhale, watching the plume of breath rise towards the stars. </p><p>I think through my options: if I linger here, they'll see me or mum will come find me and drag me back in, but I can't apparate away because I'm not of age. I sigh and start walking. The sound of my sneakers crushing ice and gravel fills my ears. The country is lovely, but if I hadn't gone to a school in a highly dangerous magical castle for the past four years, I'd have been terrified by the encroaching darkness. As I move farther from the house, the darkness begins to brush against me on both sides. I slide my wand out of my pocket and mutter, "<em>Lumos</em>." </p><p>I'm venturing forward, enjoying the solitude, when I notice a dark figure standing before me. I grind to a halt, squinting to see into the shadows past the light of my wand. "Hello?" </p><p>"Greetings." </p><p>There's only one person in this neighborhood pretentious enough to drawl "greetings" to someone they've met in a dark country lane. They step forward, hands in their pockets as if they haven't a care in the world. And I suppose if your parents are part of the richest, oldest family in the English wizarding world, you don't have any cares. He stops just inside my circle of light. </p><p>"Malfoy," I say curtly. </p><p>His marble brow wrinkles. "Do I know you?" </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Does he know me</em><em>?  </em>My lungs feel completely empty, suddenly, like the sheer audacity of this man's attitude sucked the air out. "Are you serious?" </p><p>He raises a pale eyebrow. His eyes rove up and down my body, and I picture myself the way he must see me: lumpy, shadowy, and utterly unfamiliar. </p><p>"We're in the same house at school. I've sat behind you in Potions for three years." </p><p>He shrugs, not at all embarrassed that he's never deigned to notice me before. <em>Why would he, though? He spends all his time staring at Harry Potter, and when that gets boring he switches to Hermione. </em></p><p>My patience snaps, "Eve. Eve Rooney." </p><p>He nods immediately. "Sure, yeah."</p><p>I roll my eyes and attempt to step around him.</p><p>Somehow he manages to block the path with his narrow frame. "So what are you doing out?" </p><p>"What's it to you?" </p><p>He shrugs again. Up close, I can see that his chin is slightly pointed like his nose. <em>Like Snow Miser</em>. He says, "Let's blame curiosity and cats." </p><p>"A mere five seconds ago you didn't remember my name," I remind him. "And now you're suddenly interested in what I'm doing?" </p><p>"It's my business to know why trespassers are on my property." </p><p>"First of all, it's your daddy's property," I retort. "Second of all, I'm not trespassing. I live up the lane." </p><p>If I hadn't been standing so close to him, I might have missed the twitch between his eyebrows and the flare of his nostrils. "Pardon?" </p><p>"The cottage up the lane? You could probably see it from that ridiculous castle of yours if you bothered looking." </p><p>His eyes flick over my shoulder as if they can see all the way into my grandparents' living room. He frowns, still more surprised than embarrassed. </p><p>"Well, anyway," I say, using the distraction to shoulder him aside. I take pleasure in the fact that he stumbles and hope that he doesn't follow---</p><p>"Hey," he calls. "Rudy!" He catches up and blocks the path again, forcing me to stop and glare at him. "Don't you want to know what I'm doing here?" </p><p>"Not at all." </p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"Do you seriously have your head shoved that far up your arse or is this genuine?" </p><p>"Is what genuine?" </p><p>"Chasing a strange girl down a dark road just to annoy her into asking what you're doing out." </p><p>"You aren't a stranger, Rudy, we're both Slytherins." </p><p>"You found that out five minutes ago," I say flatly. "And you can't even remember my name." </p><p>He smirks, "You aren't the least bit interested?" </p><p>"No." I turn and stalk back up the path. I can't believe this idiot is about to drive me back inside the Ice Palace. <em>So much for peace</em>. I hear him start following me, so I whirl around and point my wand at his feet. "I will stupefy you." </p><p>He snorts, "You can't do that." </p><p>"Stu--" </p><p>"Alright!" </p><p>I escape, but I can feel him watching my back until I round the bend in the road. Instead of taking my coat back to my room, I hang it properly on the rack by the door and leave my wet sneakers next to the ferocious radiator, wobbling into the kitchen to make tea. I wonder if feeling will reenter my toes by itself or if I'm going to have to reanimate them with electricity like Frankenstein's monster.</p><p>Mum is on my heels. "Where have you been?" </p><p>"I walked up the lane a bit," I say. "I think I contracted frostbite."</p><p>She huffs, "You can't just stroll off into the night like that. What if you'd been kidnapped? Where would I get moral support this close to Christmas?" </p><p>"I think Domino's might deliver?" </p><p>She laughs. </p><p>"What happened," I ask.  </p><p>"Mother wanted to know what Ben's parents do." </p><p>I cringe. "What <em>do</em> they do?" </p><p>"He's a surgeon and she's an interior designer." </p><p>"Respectable," I say as the kettle boils. </p><p>"Not to Gran. She thinks surgeons are backwards." </p><p>"How does she think they fix people without magic," I ask, but I know. My grandparents are not extremists like the Malfoys, but they are definitely blinded by their own ignorance in Muggle ways. Gran considers the delicate work of a surgeon gory and refuses to look at it from any other angle. </p><p>Mum sighs and groans. "At least she's making conversation." </p><p>"Georgie," Ben calls from the other room. "Do you remember where you bought me this shirt?" </p><p>I snicker. "<em>Georgie</em>?" </p><p>She sticks her tongue out at me but dutifully marches back into the living room proclaiming, "Somewhere in Harrods I think." </p><p>The kettle whistles. I fill my mug and dunk a tea bag in, drowning it with the help of a spoon and adding a bit of sugar. I watch brown leak out of its mesh bag and muddy the clear water, chewing my bottom lip. <em>Okay</em> but<em> what </em>was <em>he doing out there?</em></p><p>I curse myself as soon as I've thought it. </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The book shop in the village is as quaint as I remember it. The entire thing, from the elderly woman who owns it to the very shelves the books repose upon, is the embodiment of honeyed tea on a chilly Sunday morning. Soft light streams through the antique windowpanes, illuminating the lovely holiday gift arrangements and making the embossed covers shine. A woman with gigantic round glasses that would put Professor Trelawney's to shame looks up from her newspaper as I enter. I give her my most cheerful grin. </p><p>"Do you have anything about Morgan le Fay?" </p><p>She shrugs, "Try the back room."</p><p>I nod my thanks and continue on my way, one hand resting idly on my bag and the other already wrapping around the end of my wand. I find the shelf easy enough; I probably hadn't needed to use the code, but I wanted to make sure nothing had changed since the summer. There, in the farthest corner, sandwiched between two romance novels, is a worn paperback that must have been cerulean blue long ago but has faded to a dingy periwinkle. I tug it off the shelf and it falls open to a legend where Morgan le Fay is preparing to open a door between worlds to bring a host of shadow soldiers against King Arthur's forces. I tap my wand on her poetic magic words and whisper them to myself. The shelving unit in front of me begins blurring and melting until there's a space just wide enough for me to get through. I sit the book on the shelf next to the door, knowing that once I'm through, it'll magically reappear in its proper place. </p><p>The door leads down a set of stone stairs and into a short, curved tunnel. By the dim light of the candles burning in sconces every few feet, I can see the folklore mural as I walk towards the other end; Tam Lin kneels before his faerie queen, Ursilla visits her Selkie, Beowulf rips Grendel apart. As I step into the chilly midmorning light, I check my watch and click my tongue: I'm late. I set off down the rough cobblestone lane before me, weaving my way through the hectic throng of witches and wizards attempting to Christmas shop without loosing limbs in the mob. My shoes--boots this time, my sneakers are still damp--splash through slushy puddles, and I cringe when a particularly deep one sends icy water splashing onto my tights. Finally, I see the pastel pink sign of the bakery swinging above the heads of the people in front of me, its gold lettering glimmering in the sunlight. Mum is conveniently seated in the bay window, arms resting on the table and coffee settled between her elbows. </p><p>A bell chimes as I push the door open. I settle in front of Mum and heave her steaming mug of coffee to my mouth. It scalds my tongue. </p><p>"Good morning," she says. </p><p>"I got your note." </p><p>She smiles. "How did you sleep?" </p><p>I shrug, "Fine. They must have fixed the radiator." Over the summer, the radiator was broken and ran 24/7, so I'd spent the week sweating and sleeping in my underwear. I take another sip of coffee. "What about you and Ben?" </p><p>"We were fine." Before I can take a third sip, she pulls the mug away from me. "Counter's right over there if you want to order, you know."</p><p>"Good fine?" </p><p>She nods. "Yeah. He fell asleep really quickly; must be exhausted with putting up with my parents." </p><p>"He's doing really well," I say. </p><p>Mum smiles. "I'm proud of him. If I had to deal with a boyfriend's mother who was half as bad as mine, I would run screaming." </p><p>I laugh, "Hey, they're doing okay, too. They didn't hang him by his thumbs for soiling the Father Christmas tea towel." </p><p>She groans, covering her eyes as if to stave off the memory. "Oh my God." </p><p>Last night, Ben had used Gran's favorite Father Christmas tea towel to wipe up a pudding spill. The pudding was chocolate, and unfortunately, he managed to use just the wrong spot for cleaning up a brown, sticky substance. Gran flipped in a very Gran way; she moaned about how the ruined towel had been her grandmother's and how she'd kept it pristine since it was given to her on her wedding day. Mum told her off for being dramatic when she had a perfectly good stain removal method, and Granddad had needed to console her when she stormed off to her room. </p><p>"I told you this would be <em>The Family Stone </em>not <em>The Holiday</em>," I say. </p><p>"If you're going to gloat you can just leave," she says flatly. </p><p>I reassure her that there will be no gloating. "So if you're here, where's Ben?" </p><p>"He's shopping in the village." She sees my eyes. "The <em>Muggle</em> version," she says. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?" </p><p>"Just checking." </p><p>"He said he wanted to find my mother a replacement for her tea towel." </p><p>"That," I say. "Is the cutest and sweetest thing I have ever heard. And you've been dating him for how long?" </p><p>"Since September." </p><p>I pause. "Wow, you must be a really good girlfriend." </p><p>"Oh, I <em>am</em>. Very skilled." </p><p>I push my fingertips against my lips and make a noise in my throat. "That is the worst thing I've ever heard." </p><p>She takes a sip of coffee, wriggling her eye brows. </p><p>"Never say anything remotely touching that subject to me again." </p><p>She giggles. </p><p>"I mean it." I stick out my little finger. "Pinky swear." </p><p>She wraps hers around mine. "I promise to not talk to my daughter about a very fun fact of life again." </p><p>"You know, normal mums don't do that stuff."</p><p>Mum sticks her tongue out at me. "I do things differently. Faster." My mum had me a year and nine months after graduating from Hogwarts, so she raised me and figured out how to be an adult at the same time. With Gran and Granddad's help, of course. </p><p>I snort, letting my eyes stray out the window into the street as she enjoys her coffee. A gaggle of witches in candy colored robes trimmed with matching fur stroll by, arms wrapped around numerous packages. Two wizards come out of a cafe; one lights his friend's cigarette and then takes a puff of his own. Some kid, face as red as a tomato from frustration, is being half dragged away from the broomstick shop by an exhausted looking mother. Owls soar overhead gripping letters in their talons while cats weave effortlessly through the crowd, letters in their mouths. The villagers have strung fairy lights over the road, and wreaths with red velvet bows hang from every door. </p><p>I'm staring across the way, wondering if I can convince Mum to get me a pygmy puff for Christmas when I make eye contact with Draco Malfoy himself. I groan inwardly as his thin lips curl into a smirk. It becomes an audible groan when he begins coming towards our bakery. Mum has knitted her eyebrows together by the time he looms over our table. </p><p>"Rudy." <em>I suppose that's better than greetings</em>.  </p><p>I blink up at him, frowning. "Pardon?"</p><p>"Did your sneakers survive the walk last night?" </p><p>"I'm sorry," I say. "I think you have the wrong table. Neither of us is named Rudy." </p><p>He smirks, turns to Mum, and offers a hand. "I'm Draco Malfoy."</p><p>"Charmed," Mum says.</p><p>"What are you ladies doing out," he asks. "Christmas shopping?" </p><p>"Yes. I needed to pick up some last minute things for stocking fillers," Mum says with a tight smile. </p><p>Draco nods like this is the most fascinating conversation he's had. "That's exactly what I'm doing, but I also have to run some errands for school." </p><p>Mum cocks her head. "So early into break?" </p><p>"Yes," he says. "One of my extra classes got canceled so I need to scrape together supplies for a new one." </p><p>I refrain from rolling my eyes. Who is this polite, well-adjusted boy and what did he do with the egotistical prat I've known for four years? </p><p>"That's actually why I came in," he breaks off and turns to me. "I was hoping you could help me." </p><p>"Help you?" </p><p>"Find all the supplies I need. You're taking advanced Transfiguration, right?" </p><p>I school my face into neutrality. "Yes."</p><p>"Perfect, so you know exactly which version of the book we need." </p><p>I open my mouth to tell him to go away, but Mum speaks for me. "Sure, Eve can help you. I need to meet back up with my parents, anyway, and steer them away from any embarrassing gifts they might find for her." </p><p>"Don't you need me there to do the same for you?" </p><p>She shakes her head. "We can switch jobs tomorrow." </p><p>Draco huffs, and I realize that he's attempting a laugh. </p><p>"Go on," Mum says, and I realize that I have no choice. </p><p>I stifle another groan and rise to my feet, shouldering my bag. Draco waves me past. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Rooney." </p><p>Hearing him say my name correctly makes my spine stiffen. We walk up the sidewalk together, muscling through the crowd. </p><p>"So you do know my name." </p><p>"I'm pretty good with names and faces once I've been told." </p><p>"You messed it up twice last night. And just a few minutes ago." I glance at him.</p><p>He's smirking. "I like to have fun." </p><p>"Is being an asshole fun?" </p><p>"Sometimes." </p><p>"You're unbelievable," I say. I turn around to start back towards Mum, but he catches my wrist. For a man who looks like an overgrown child from a Dickens novel, his hand is surprisingly strong and warm. </p><p>"Where are you going?" </p><p>I yank my arm away, glowering at him. "Back to my mum before my day is ruined by a prick in a peacoat." </p><p>"This is a trench coat," he says, waving at the billowing wool. </p><p>"Not the point," I snap. </p><p>"Oh come on, Rooney," he says. "You promised to help me look for books for school." </p><p>"I did no such thing." </p><p>"Okay, your mum said you would." </p><p>"And I'm fourteen not four," I say. "So I will be revoking my help." </p><p>His eyes are dancing. "What if I promise not to be an ass?" </p><p>"I don't think that's possible." </p><p>"It is," he says. "Just ask Pansy Parkinson." </p><p>I groan. Think through my options. I walk past him in the direction we'd started, and he falls into place beside me. </p><p>"Do I want to know what changed your mind?" </p><p><em>It was either shop with my grandparents and mum and endure </em>that <em>mess, or shop with the most egotistical person I know</em>. "No," I tell him. </p><p>***</p><p>Turns out, he really did need school books. He tucks the brown paper package under his arm as we emerge from the shop and pulls a slip of parchment from his inside pocket. "Okay. Book down. I also need some new ingredients for potions." </p><p>I think of my own dwindling supplies at home and sigh. "So do I." </p><p>"Excellent." He folds the parchment up and we cross the street. </p><p>The potions shop is a cramped yet cavernous place. The shelves are painted black, the floors are made of dark wood, and there are black lace curtains over the front windows. Stepping over the threshold sends an immediate shiver up my spine. I've never been to these shops before; I usually wait until right before school to get supplies from Diagon Alley, but this is fine, I suppose. I don't have anything <em>better </em>to do. And he hasn't been an asshole for a good ten minutes. </p><p>"So the temperature is meant to keep the ingredients fresh?" </p><p>"Yeah, and the lighting helps too," Malfoy answers. </p><p>A tiny wizard in gray robes shot through with silver thread steps out from a back room. "Welcome in. Do you know what you're looking for?" </p><p>"I need to stock up on the regulars for Hogwarts fourth years," Malfoy drawls. He glances at me. </p><p>I nod, "Same here, thanks." </p><p>"Name," the clerk says to Malfoy as he waddles to the gigantic wall of drawers behind the counter. He runs a finger over the lettered plaques, his long nail clicking on the metal. He selects "M" and pulls it open, rifling through some cream colored folders until he finds Malfoy's tab. </p><p>"And you," he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. </p><p>"Oh I don't have a tab, thanks." </p><p>"Try Rooney," Malfoy says. </p><p>I frown at him but watch as the clerk riffles through the "R" drawer. To my surprise, he pulls out another cream folder and slaps it on the counter with Malfoy's. I never knew my grandparents made potions at home, though I suppose that should have been a given fact. After surveying our files for a few seconds, he trundles off into the back room. Left alone with Malfoy, because no one else wanted to brave the -8 degree shop with snow on the ground, I move away and survey the shelves. Different shaped vials and bottles filled with multicolored liquids line the walls, their tops stoppered with black cork to fit the aesthetic of the shop, each labeled with neat, cramped handwriting on white paper. Some of them manage to catch the light through the lace curtains. One of them shines like a ruby. </p><p>"That," Malfoy says from the counter. "Is a particularly strong vial of liquid confidence." </p><p>"So...firewhiskey?" </p><p>He laughs, and it comes out like a huff again. It occurs to me that the Malfoys might not have the genetic ability to laugh beyond a huff or a snicker. "No. Kreppel brews it here." </p><p>"He must be talented," I say, moving towards some lovely lilac colored liquids. I reach out to touch one of the bottles; it's shaped like a princess cut diamond, its glass frosted like an antique perfume bottle. The stopper is even shaped like a paper fan. </p><p>"And that is <em>aufero labe</em>. It helps people...forget things." </p><p>I jerk my fingertips back, shoving them deep in my pocket as I move away from the vial. "Gross." </p><p>"Not fond of bottled dementia?" </p><p>"Absolutely not." I glance at him over my shoulder. "Are <em>you</em>?" </p><p>He wrinkles his straight, sharp nose. "Of course not." I must look absolutely dubious because his white brows sink low over his eyes. "Do I really seem so awful as to want to play with someone's memories like that?" </p><p>
  <em>Aren't you the same boy who attempted to have a hippogriff executed last year? Got Hagrid sent to Azkaban our first year? Called Hermione a mudblood? </em>
</p><p>I'm about to remind him of how bloody terrible he is when Kreppel returns, carrying two bundles of packaged potion ingredients. He hands them to us with a smile that is about as bright as his shop. "Please," he says. "Come again." </p><p>Malfoy and I make our way down the street in silence, completely at odds with the cheerful, shouting crowd around us. It seems to part as we walk through. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The muscle in his jaw is feathered and I imagine that if I were to silence all the people around us, I could hear his teeth squeaking as they grind together. I start scanning faces and shops for mum, desperate to get away from the awkwardness. </p><p>Suddenly, he stops in front of a shop. I stop too, glance up. It's a pizza place. </p><p>"I'm hungry," he says. </p><p>"Er, okay." </p><p>"Are you hungry?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"See you later, then." </p><p>I blink at him and start to retort, but the door is already bumping into the little bell and heads are already turning to welcome a new customer. I watch him disappear inside, dumbfounded on the sidewalk. <em>What an absolute twat</em>. </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's an Eurasian Eagle-Owl at my window, tapping the glass with its sharp beak. I blink, rubbing my eyes just in case I'm hallucinating this bird after hours of studying. It taps again, so I place my quill in the spine of my text book and roll my neck. It cracks and I wince. </p><p>"Hello," I say to the owl as I let it inside. </p><p>It flaps onto my bed, puffing out its feathers and opening its wings the way someone might stretch after taking off a coat. It holds one large beige leg out to me, shaking it slightly as if annoyed that I haven't already relieved it of its cargo. I gently untie the twine, and, because it's still staring at me with persimmon orange eyes, I gesture to Star's empty cage. "There's water in there if you want." The owl hoots and flaps into the cage. </p><p>I shake my head and unroll the piece of parchment. Forest green ink shines in the overhead light, and I read: <em>Do you want to have dinner?  - D. Malfoy. </em></p><p>My head immediately whips to the window as if I'm expecting him to be hovering there, hands in his pockets, smirk on his stupid face. Of course, he isn't, but I notice that my room has a direct view of Malfoy Manor's spacious yard and one side of its foreboding structure. The windows, all darkened except one, gleam in the afternoon light. I frown, feeling watched, and cross to my desk, ready to decline his invitation and send the imperious owl packing. I pause, though, with the quill suspended above the inkwell. </p><p>I <em>am </em>hungry. I dip my pen. </p><p>But he's the worst. It's Christmas, I should be spending time with my family, not some weird guy who's only polite to my mum. He didn't even say goodbye the other day after spending at least an hour with me picking out books or remember my name. </p><p>I scratch the "y" out and begin a neat "n."</p><p>But at least he's polite to mum, and it was pretty dark the other night even in the light of my wand...maybe if I hung out with him it would help Gran's reputation if Narcissa <em>does </em>find out about Ben.</p><p>I bite my lip. </p><p>But do I seriously want to ruin my break by hanging out with him? He'll probably insult me once he finds out mum works in a Muggle relations office in London. Or insult me just because I'm a girl. He seems kind of sexist anyway. </p><p>I groan. I scrawl "where" across the bottom of the page, hoping to buy myself some time. I lean against the windowsill and watch the owl soar straight to Malfoy's window. In a few minutes, it's back. </p><p>
  <em>In the village at seven. There's a good pub.</em>
</p><p>I know exactly the one he's referring to, and it has the best Shepherd's pie in England; I could really go for some mashed potatoes. But it would be mashed potatoes with Malfoy. Sniveling, imperious Malfoy.  </p><p>Though that might be better than spending <em>another </em>dinner navigating the mine field between my grandparents and Ben? The last two days have been me hanging out with both parties separately. Breakfast and a walk with Gran and Granddad, lunch with Mum and Ben. Games with Gran and Granddad, snowball fight with Mum and Ben. Dinner is the only meal where all five of us sit around the table together and pretend to be a cozy family. And the Tea Towel Incident only made things worse. </p><p>I write "okay" on the paper and tie it to the owl's leg like it's suddenly burst into flame. Checking my watch makes my stomach tighten; I only have thirty minutes to find an outfit suitable enough for the you-aren't-that-important-but-don't-I-look-great look I'm trying to pull off. I shut the window and then the curtains, suddenly wondering how many times I've changed in my room thinking no one could see me. </p><p>In minutes, all the clothes in my wardrobe are thrown haphazardly on the bed. I tap my foot, torn between a green sweater dress and my favorite pair of jeans. In the end I opt for neither and throw a white mock neck under a black and white checked dress with thin straps, roll on black tights, and stuff my feet into boots. I clomp into the bathroom to survey my hair. I pull out the hair tie and shake my curls out at the roots, scowling when I don't immediately look like Lisa Bonet. Displeased with my hair after attempting a bun and ponytail, I take solace in the fact that the white of my sweater makes my face glow. I dab on some blush and swipe some mascara over my lashes so that they look less droopy. I'm about to smear on some lipgloss when I remember who exactly is going to dinner with me and stop. </p><p>The doorbell rings just as I slip into my coat. "Be back soon," I call, settling my purse on my shoulder.  </p><p>Draco's eyes survey me as if I'm a particularly interesting piece of modern art when I step outside. "Nice dress." </p><p>"Thanks," I say, buttoning my coat against the cold.</p><p>He nods, moving away from the door. "Sorry I couldn't get the car to the door because of the slush." </p><p>"I didn't know you had a car." </p><p>"Sure," he says. "I can't apparate." </p><p>"Aren't you only fourteen?" </p><p>He shrugs. "Yeah." </p><p>"We aren't supposed to drive until we're sixteen." <em>Also the wizarding village can't be accessed by car, so I guess we aren't going to the pub I was thinking of. </em></p><p>"We're wizards, and you're worried about Muggle laws?" </p><p><em>Right. Blood-purist. </em>That thought alone is almost enough to make me turn around and head right back inside. He must see it on my face because he says: </p><p>"Muggle laws shouldn't apply to us. We aren't Muggles." </p><p>"But we're British." </p><p>"British <em>wizards</em>." </p><p>"Either way, who wants a fourteen-year-old to operate a motor vehicle?" </p><p>"Their hungry fourteen-year-old friends." Malfoy smirks. </p><p>I roll my eyes. "You don't want to listen to Muggle laws because you think they're beneath you." <em>At least we're having this conversation now, where I can run back inside if it gets too heated. </em></p><p>He glances at me. "I don't think Muggles are beneath me." </p><p>I stop three feet from his shiny black Audi. "Pardon?" </p><p>Malfoy's eyes narrow. "Of course I don't. They're people." </p><p>I must look completely baffled. "<em>Dude</em>. Your entire thing is anti-Muggle. You called Hermione a <em>mudblood </em>for Christ's sake." </p><p>"I was twelve." </p><p>"Your whole <em>family </em>hates Muggles." </p><p>He's opened the passenger door for me, and in the light of the car, I can see that his face and neck have flushed baby pink. I guess that's as close to blushing as marble can get. I bet my own face is as red as a holly berry; that's my tell for when I'm feeling any feeling other than happy. When he speaks, he sounds slightly hoarse. </p><p>"That's not <em>me</em>. That's just my family." </p><p>I don't have anything to say to that, so I drop into the Audi's buttery leather seat and let him snap the door shut. I've come too far to abandon dinner now.</p><p>The silence is interrupted only when Malfoy changes the radio stations when the DJs start talking. The car zips through the country, devouring the three kilometers it takes to get to the village so quickly that I wonder if it's been enchanted. He parks effortlessly on the side of the road and helps me out. The pub's windows are filled with cheerful yellow light, and its door looks about four hundred years old. </p><p>"This building has stood on this spot, one way or another, since Elizabeth I," Malfoy says. He holds the door for me and requests a table for two. </p><p>We are seated in a booth that looks as if it was carved from England's bedrock; the walls are made of stacked stone, whitewashed until they look like one slab. The seats are cushioned with velvet that must have once sparkled in the lamplight; I half expect Malfoy to explain that Mary Queen of Scotts wore the material to her execution or something. I strip off my coat and then flatten my palms on the table. </p><p>"Look," I say, and can't believe I'm about to. "I'm sorry." </p><p>Even he's surprised. His eyebrows lift.</p><p>"I've insulted you twice, once for each time we've hung out, and I'm sorry." I swallow. </p><p>"Apology accepted," he says. "And I'm sorry for not recognizing you immediately. Of course I knew you; we've been Slytherins since September 1991." </p><p>I snort. "I can throw away the flash cards then." </p><p>"Flash cards?" </p><p>"To help you remember our classmates. I didn't want someone to feel as shitty as I did." </p><p>He huffs--chuckles, I decide. "Okay, I deserved that." </p><p>I nod absently. Our conversation before the drive has made me curious. Is he really a spoiled prick or is it all an act? And if it's an act, why does he do that? Surely he knows everyone besides Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy thinks he's a complete twat. I almost ask, but the waitress comes by and takes our orders. </p><p>Malfoy leans against the back of the booth as she bustles away. "Do you always spend Christmas at your grandparents' house?" </p><p>I nod. "At least two weeks. Mum can work from their house by Owl Post, so it's fun for us to---" I realize that we're in a pub crammed with nonmagical people. "<em>Drive</em> in and spend some time with Gran and Granddad." </p><p>"What does your mum do?" </p><p>I lower my voice and lean forward. "She's a Muggle Relations representative for the Ministry. She's posted in London." </p><p>"Interesting," he says, matching my posture. "That explains the excitement earlier." </p><p>My eyes narrow. "You've done a pretty good job of making everyone think you hate Muggles for three and a half years. Not to mention the years before that; the other village kids used to whisper about what a git you were."</p><p>"Again, my family's doing," Malfoy says. "I don't think nonmagical people are beneath me, but they think we have a reputation to uphold." A shadow darkens his calculating silver eyes to slate gray for a few seconds. </p><p>"It's a shit reputation." </p><p>He shrugs. "Agreed." </p><p>I take a deep breath, notice the tightness around the corners of his mouth, and decide to leave the subject for the night. It's a meal, not a therapy session. "But, yeah, Mum works with Muggles." </p><p>"What does your dad do?" </p><p>"He's a potions professor at Durmstrang." </p><p>"Is he apparating in for the holidays or did he come with Krum and the rest?"</p><p>I hesitate. "My parents are divorced." </p><p>His face freezes. "Oh." </p><p>"It's okay. It happened when I was seven. It was pretty messy, so it's actually better that he left." My stomach flips; why am I telling him this? </p><p>Malfoy begins to nod. "Okay. Um. Shall we steer away from family matters?" </p><p>I laugh, surprising us both. "Gladly." </p><p>After that, the conversation flows easily except for once incident. He knows a lot about Quidditch, and as he talks, I feel silly for thinking the only reason he joined the team was to needle Potter. He jabbers on about Ireland winning the World Cup until I begin to believe I'd seen it myself, though I was at home. </p><p>"I was scared they were going to lose when I saw Krum dive for the Snitch," he says. "But then they still won and everything suddenly turned bright green and everyone was screaming the fight song." His eyes shine. "It was amazing." </p><p>I smile. "It sounds cool. Mum and I didn't get to go, although after what happened, I'm glad we weren't there." </p><p>Malfoy's smile melts, his face freezing again. "Yeah. That was awful." </p><p>Thinking quickly, I ask him what his owl's name is (Caesar, of course) and we talk about pleasant things from then on. All in all, as he walks me to my grandparents' door, I'm glad I came. </p><p>"So," he says. "Did you want to come see the Beedle the Bard first edition tomorrow, or...?" </p><p>"Sure," I say, fishing for my key in my purse. "That would be great!" </p><p>"I can come pick you up?" </p><p>"Don't worry about it. I can walk." </p><p>He shrugs, "Okay." </p><p>I fit my key into the lock. "Thanks for taking me to dinner. It was fun." </p><p>"Yes," he says. "Great fun." </p><p>"Well." I push the door open. "Tomorrow then. Noon?" </p><p>"Noon." He's walking away by the time the door shuts, and a little part of me twinges as if I want him to stay. </p><p>The notion is so preposterous that I flip the lock into place loud enough to cause Granddad, asleep in his easy chair, to startle awake. </p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fresh snow fell over night, wrapping the world in a pretty duvet of glittery white. Unlike our yard, messy and lumpy underneath the new snow from yesterday's snowball war, Malfoy Manor's expansive lawns are crisp and smooth. Their drive has been magically swept clean creating a clear distinction between the marshy, snowy lane and the pavement. I walk between two stone columns with a wrought iron arch above that reads <em>Malfoy </em>in looping calligraphy and follow the sweep of the road between conical fir trees. Their shade makes me shiver, and by the time I've made it to the grand front entrance, I feel positively frozen. </p><p>The door is made of black walnut, most likely charmed to repel the weather. Twin snakes have been carved curling down and around the hinges on either side, and I'm leaning forward to inspect their eyes, which seem to be made of real emerald, when I hear a gigantic lock being thrown on the other side. The door eases open and an elf pokes its head out. </p><p>"Mistress Rooney?" Its voice is nasally. I nod stiffly and it motions me inside with a thin beige hand. I should have been expecting a house elf, I knew that the Malfoys have them. Hell, even Hogwarts does, but seeing one blinking up at me so nonchalantly with its large wet eyes shocks me.</p><p>The door shuts behind us with a soft thud, and I hear the lock click back into place as I follow the elf across a black and white marble floor and up the grand white marble staircase. I keep my gaze on its hunched shoulders, surveying things from the corners of my eyes so that I'm not in danger of being caught gawking at the luxurious house. I would wager that if the chandelier above me fell, its impact would be felt in the states. The slap of the elf's bare feet on stone makes me shiver. </p><p>"What's your name," I whisper. In this absolute cave of a residence, it seems silly to speak aloud. </p><p>The elf looks at me over its shoulder. "Heidi." She frowns at me disapprovingly. </p><p>I nod, still wanting to complete the ritual. "I'm Eve." </p><p>Heidi doesn't answer. She stops outside more black walnut doors and knocks. After a beat of silence, I hear Malfoy's voice admit us. Heidi holds the door open for me, and I walk past her. She's gone before I can thank her. </p><p>The Malfoys' library is massive; it's a rectangular room with shelves--yes more black walnut--crammed with ancient tomes and new editions on three of the walls. The fourth is dominated by floor to ceiling windows framed with massive cream curtains. Couches and chairs and tables with reading lights are grouped in front of these windows. Malfoy reposes on one of the leather couches, legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He tosses his white-blonde hair out of his eyes and sits up as I come in. I stand there for a second, dumbfounded. He's wearing jeans. </p><p>Jeans. </p><p>Not slacks, not khakis. Well fitting blue jeans. With a baggy green button down tucked into them and a black belt. And--oh my God--those are <em>sneakers </em>peeking out from beneath the pants leg. </p><p>He smiles with his mouth closed. "Glad you found your way in the snow." </p><p>I blink. "It's not very hard to follow a driveway." </p><p>"Oh good," he says. "They swept it." </p><p>"They?" </p><p>"Yes; house elves' magic is good for cooking, cleaning, and sweeping up snow in a snap." He snaps his fingers for emphasis. </p><p>I roll my eyes. "I'm sure it is." </p><p>"And they aren't exactly cheap," he says. "You should've seen my father the week they started pressuring him to pay his elves. He was in rare form, especially when mother started in." Malfoy's smirk is gone, his eyes glittering as if he's reliving his father's outbursts. "But they got through to him." </p><p>"Your elves are paid?" </p><p>"As long as it's popular in the ministry to disapprove of father and his friends' treatment of their workers, yes," he says. He picks a piece of fuzz off one of his baggy sleeves. "Hopefully they'll be under public ire for a while." </p><p>I blink, forced once again to reevaluate my idea of him--not his parents though, they still seem pretty awful. Malfoy remains unflappable under my gaze, and after a second I realize that I've been staring. I force my eyes to the shelves behind him. "I never knew Malfoy Manor had a library." </p><p>"Of course. I'm pretty sure half of it was stollen from the British Wizarding Library at the turn of the century," he says. </p><p>"Including the first edition of Beedle the Bard?" </p><p>"Oh no," he says. "My grandfather bought that at an auction." I must look exceedingly eager because he motions for me to follow him. </p><p>We wind up a tight spiral staircase that I hadn't noticed before and step into a loft lined with the same dark shelves. Five more shorter shelves are arranged like wagon wheel spokes around a circular table that supports a thick block of ancient, yellowed parchment. A thrill unfurls through me like a whip, compelling me forward. I hear Malfoy's sneakers--<em>sneakers</em>--shuffle after me. I stare down at columns of text, written in Middle English. </p><p>"Wow." </p><p>"Wow," he agrees. </p><p>I reach out to touch the edges despite knowing they'll probably disintegrate under my fingertips but stub my hand on a wall of hard air. Malfoy chuckles: </p><p>"Did you think we'd leave these out for anyone to fondle?" </p><p>I shake my hand, willing the ache in my knuckles to go away while making a mental note to ask for the spell. "I thought all Manor People were careless with priceless artifacts." </p><p>"Not these Manor People," he says delicately. I glance at him, noting a slight pucker above the bridge of his nose. It clears as soon as he sees me watching. </p><p>I clear my throat. "So is this all you do all day? Brood over Beedle in your library?" </p><p>He laughs. "No. I also brood in other parts of the house. Sometimes I even brood outside." </p><p>"Like a goth Mr. Darcy?" </p><p>"Somewhat," he says. "I hope I'm less awkward." </p><p>"You make up for your social ease by being equally insulting." </p><p>He frowns, but his eyes glint bright silver. "Is that so?" </p><p>"Pretending not to know my name?" </p><p>Malfoy shakes his head. His voice is velvet. "That was to get your attention, Rooney." </p><p>"Oh?" Suddenly, I'm aware of how silent and remote everything is and how close we're standing. "You know what else would get my attention?" </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"Multiple libraries." </p><p>"Unfortunately we only have the one." </p><p>I pout. "What's the point of having a manor if you only have one library?" </p><p>"To give the proletariat something to loath?"</p><p>"So they can get out of bed every morning--" </p><p>"--Driven by hate," he finishes my sentence, grinning now. "There are no libraries, but we do have a theater."</p><p>"Complete with puppets? Victoria and Albert would be proud."</p><p>"No puppets, but we do have a very large television." </p><p>I sigh, "I suppose that will work." </p><p>I follow him through the winding halls of the manor, trying not to gawk at the marble, the wallpaper, the silver fixtures. The sheer drama of Malfoy Manor would send Oscar Wilde into a coma, would make Liberace envy cry. Everywhere I turn there are more jewel tones, more crystal, more precious metal. If it wasn't so tastefully done, it would be hideous. As I'm drawn further into the bowels of the manor, I replay our conversation.</p><p>To get my attention? For dating? Shagging? Both? And then there was my response. Where did that come from? That wasn't premeditated. I had spoken before I'd even thought; my tongue had just <em>moved</em>. Do I want him to get my attention? I guess he has it, huh? And all it took was a library. What is this? <em>Beauty and the Beast</em>? You'd think I'd be smarter. I guess a manor worked for Elizabeth Bennet, so why wouldn't it work for me? And would it be so bad? To date or shag, or date and shag Draco Malfoy? He <em>says </em>his whole Muggle hating thing is an act and that Lucius pays the house elves now, and I'm not really sure why you'd lie about that to some random Slytherin just to sleep with and then dump her. </p><p>Head filled with more question marks than periods, I bump into Malfoy's back as he stops in front of two more black walnut doors. He chuckles as I stumble backward, reaching out to steady me. I shrug his hand off, a little embarrassed. His eyes are dancing again as he heaves open the doors, "Welcome." </p><p>The theater slopes down to the gigantic screen hanging on the wall framed by heavy red velvet curtains trimmed with gold fringe. Deep brown leather chairs are arranged in three rows of four leading to the top of the slope, where we stand. For a second, an image of Lucius Malfoy and his sour faced colleagues sitting around in this theater drinking soda and mowing through popcorn flashes through my head. The sight of Severus Snape with cheddar dust on his fingers is something I never knew I needed. </p><p>"So do you guys have movie nights?" </p><p>"Sometimes." He looks slightly uncomfortable. "I didn't actually grow up with too many friends. The ones that did come round were usually the children of my parents' friends, and as we got older we realized that we didn't quite care for one another, but there was nothing we could do." He strolls down the center aisle as if trying to leave that memory behind. </p><p>I follow. "I'm sorry." </p><p>He shrugs, side eyeing me. "Did you ever think that the Malfoys had a theater in their mansion?" </p><p>My nose crinkles, "Absolutely not. I thought it would be too twentieth century for you all." </p><p>"My father dislikes it. He believes it mars the integrity of the historical architecture." </p><p>"Of course he does," I say, rolling my eyes. "I would expect nothing less from him." </p><p>Malfoy gives me another close lipped smile. "What shall we watch?" </p><p>"Well, are we thinking good movie or bad movie?" </p><p>"Why would we watch a bad movie?" </p><p>"So we can trash them," I say. "Obviously." </p><p>He snorts, "Sounds like a waste of time." </p><p>"It absolutely is not." </p><p>"Okay," he says. "Let's do one good, one bad." </p><p>I grimace, looking at my watch. "Oh, I can't. I promised mum I'd be back for dinner." </p><p>The corners of his mouth sag slightly, but that's the only indication of disappointment he shows. "Alright," he says. "One good, and the next time you come, one bad." </p><p>I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah sure. Next time." As he blinks, I realize that I want to come. I want to spend time with someone who isn't expecting me to swoop in and save them from awkward moments or to side with them in the end. I want to come here and trade banter and talk about books and see more of the Manor and...and more of Malfoy, who seems to want to see more of me.</p><p>I smile, "Tomorrow."  </p><p>His answering smile is so soft and shy I wonder how many people have actually seen it before. </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I set off across the manor's impeccable lawn with an armload of books. The snow has melted, turning the ground into a mess of frozen mud and crunchy, petrified grass. Malfoy walks beside me, rubbing his hands together to warm them. </p><p>"You should invest in some gloves," I tell him. </p><p>"I have them, I just left them inside." </p><p>"Just <em>accio </em>them, then." </p><p>"I thought you would warm me up." </p><p>"I'm a bit busy," I say, indicating my literary haul with a nod. He pretends to pout and I huff. "Well, you could carry some for me." </p><p>"You insisted you were fine!" </p><p>"That was before I knew that your hands were in danger of being frost bitten." </p><p>He snorts and takes three of the thick volumes from me, bracing them against his hip. A second later I feel his hand wrap around my mittened one. </p><p>"Better?" </p><p>"Much," he says.</p><p>Since that first movie afternoon three days ago, we've seen one another daily which means we've barely gone a few hours without touching in some way: brushing forearms, holding hands, him putting an arm around my waist, me resting my head in the dip between his chin and shoulder while we watch movies. No kisses, but that's okay. I only just stopped disliking him a week ago; snogging might give me whiplash. </p><p>"I can't believe you agreed to walk me home," I say. "What about your precious boots?" </p><p>He snorts, "You're lucky I'm a wizard and have excellent ways of removing mud." </p><p>"That's what mum said to gran the other day." </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"That she had excellent ways to remove stains." I've spoken before realizing who I'm talking to. Malfoy still doesn't know that Ben is nonmagic. And while he wouldn't necessarily care, he might accidentally let it slip to Narcissa. She hasn't been around much when I've been there, but I suspect Malfoy has taken it upon himself to keep us on separate ends of the Manor for now.</p><p>Despite him being shy about introducing girls to his mum, he insists that he and Narcissa have a wonderful relationship. We were drinking butterbeer in their lovely kitchen when he first volunteered that information. That's the thing with Malfoy. You have to wait for him to talk about himself; he doesn't do it when prompted, almost like he's used to avoiding remembering anything before our first year of Hogwarts. </p><p>I leaned my head back against a cabinet, settling myself more comfortably on the marble counter top. "Really?" </p><p>"Sure," he said. "After the Wizarding War, my dad was away trying to rebuild our reputation to fit the winning side's expectations, so mum and I were alone together a lot. She's the one who tutored me when I was little." He looked at me. "Didn't you know I was homeschooled?" </p><p>"No, but it makes sense," I said. </p><p>He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Anyway, yeah. Whenever Dad was home he was shut up in his study or throwing lavish parties for his colleagues." </p><p>I'd imagined the hours Malfoy must have spent alone in those empty, silent halls. No kids to play with, argue with. You can't tease your mum like you can tease other kids. "I wish you had come over to my grandparents' house."</p><p>"Would your family really wanted you playing with the son of a man who'd helped terrorize their friends and their friends' families for years?" He waves a hand dismissively. "Plus I was super shy. So it was mum and I. I really missed her my first year at Hogwarts." </p><p>"I missed my mum too," I told him. "So much. After my parents' divorce, we got super close, so when I left for school it felt like I lost my arm." His expression was so cautious that I found myself saying, "Dad had been on sabbatical at Durmstrang, and one day he turned up on our doorstep, holding the divorce papers in his right hand and wearing no wedding band on his left. Mum sent me to my room, but I heard them. He'd found a new family. When I was ten, his new wife sent us a Christmas card. She's a blonde. They have three round, blonde sons." The fact that she's blonde is not what upsets me; it's the fact that she's the complete opposite of my mother in every way.  </p><p>All of the planes of Malfoy's face had tightened into a horrible scowl, but all he said was, "She sent you a bloody Christmas card?" </p><p>"I'm sure there's a new one waiting in our hall as we speak." </p><p>He sighed, "Adults suck." </p><p>I raised my bottle with a thin smile. "To being better adults someday." </p><p>Now, as we walk back to the cottage, I squeeze his hand. "What are you doing tonight?"  </p><p>"Reading, most likely. Avoiding father until dinner." He glances at me. "Why? Miss me already?" </p><p>"No, but I am offended that your answer was not 'pining away in my room thinking about you.'" I kick a tiny piece of snow that has somehow survived the melt. </p><p>We've arrived at the side of the cottage, so I face him and lean against the stone, reaching out for my borrowed books. He places a hand on one side of my head, like we're staring in <em>Grease</em> or something. "I'll be pining, Rooney, you can believe that." </p><p>I hug my books to my chest, trying to decide if I'm Sandy or Rizzo in this scenario. He smells like mahogany and apples. "I wish you'd call me Eve." </p><p>"Eve," he says, like he's savoring the sound the arrangement makes. The wind had yanked a few of my curls out of my bun as we crossed the lawn, so he smoothes them behind my ear. "Okay. You have to call me Draco, then." </p><p>"Because Malfoy is reserved for enemies and colleagues," I tease, thinking of Harry Potter. </p><p>He smirks. "Sure." </p><p>"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Draco." For a second, I think he might kiss me, but he just pushes off the wall. </p><p>"Until tomorrow, Eve." </p><p>***</p><p>A knock on my door makes me push back from my desk. It has grown dark as I've studied, and the shadows merge with the words swimming before my eyes as I acclimate to the corporeal world. "Come in," my voice sounds like rust. </p><p>Mum elbows the door open, a mug of coffee and a plate piled with buttered toast in her hands. "How's it going?" </p><p>I shove toast into my mouth. "It's okay. I'm almost done with my first read-through of the book." </p><p>She slides the toast plate on top of my empty lunch plate and sits down on the bed. "I wish you didn't study so much. You're going to pull something." </p><p>"It's just so interesting," I murmur, thinking of the newest spell I learned. "And...beautiful, you know? The right flick of the wrist, the correct motion of the hand. It's like--" </p><p>"Dancing," she finishes. </p><p>I grin around another mouthful of toast. Comparing transfiguration to dancing is my favorite over used metaphor. "So what did you and Ben do today?" </p><p>"We had a Christmas movie marathon." </p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>"Sure," she says. "All the Muggle classics." </p><p>"Scrooged? Gremlins?" </p><p>"And A Christmas Story." </p><p>"And you stayed awake for all of them?" </p><p>"Every. Single. One." </p><p>"You deserve toast, then," I say, handing her a piece. </p><p>"What an honor." She takes a bite and chews slowly, eyes roaming around the room. When they focus on me again, I feel a jolt of foreboding. "And you. How is your new <em>friend</em>?" </p><p>I curl my legs into my chair with me. "He's good." </p><p>"Are you dating him?" </p><p>"I think so." </p><p>"You think so?" Her brow is raised, head slightly cocked. </p><p>I shrug, taking refuge in my coffee mug for a few seconds. "I mean we hold hands and stuff. Hang out. Yeah, I think we're dating." </p><p>She finishes off her piece of toast and dusts the crumbs off her fingers. "Okay." </p><p>"Okay." </p><p>"I just want you to be careful." </p><p><em>Are we really doing this</em>, I think. <em>Are we really going to have the be-careful-he's-bad-news talk? </em>"I will." </p><p>"His family is different than ours," she says, like I haven't noticed Lucius's tepid response to progress between Muggle and Wizard relations in the tabloids. "Remember what's going to happen if Narcissa finds out." </p><p>"From what Draco says about her, she'll be thrilled that he's actually dating someone." </p><p>"About Ben," mum says. She's scowling now. </p><p>I huff. "She's not going to find out about Ben. In fact, I haven't even seen her since I've been visiting." </p><p>Mum sighs. "I just want you to realize what you're doing. This is getting precarious, especially for your grandparents." </p><p>"Wasn't this whole situation already precarious?" My words are more biting than I intended them to be.</p><p>"Don't lash out at me because you feel attacked." </p><p>"Then stop attacking me." </p><p>"I'm not," she says. "I'm trying to get you to be smart. You told me he didn't even know your name when you met him." </p><p>"It was dark." </p><p>"You had your wand on." </p><p>"It was dark," I insist. "And he's just <em>like </em>that. He likes needling me, and you should see his face when I do it back." I stop myself from smiling. </p><p>"There's needling and then there's manipulation." </p><p>"You're just angry that I'm not hanging around waiting to swoop in and save you from awkward moments." I cross my arms over my chest and then uncross them when an image of Gran doing the same thing flashes through my mind. All I'd need is a low Caesar cut and winged red reading glasses, and I could be her twin. </p><p>I take a deep breath, "I like him and he likes me. His mum is never around and I was raised by <em>you</em>, so of course I'm smart," I say. "It's nothing serious." </p><p>Her dark eyes flicker across my face. "Fine." </p><p>I wait until she's shut the door to stretch out on my bed, toast plate within reach on the comforter. My coffee has grown cold. Star, finally back from wherever she's been since we left Hogwarts, stares at me from her cage. </p><p>"What," I ask. </p><p>She ducks her head. </p><p>"I was right, you know. She's using me as a shield." </p><p>Star blinks. </p><p>"I know I agreed to help, but am I not allowed to have fun at the same time?" </p><p>Star cocks her head, as if she's come up with several answers and none of them are good enough. </p><p>I take a monstrous bite of toast. "It's my holiday, too, you know." </p><p>A familiar tap at the window sends my heart racing. For once, Caesar's scalding yellow-orange gaze is a welcome distraction as I hurry to open the window. </p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"It's all that walking back and forth between houses," Gran says, crossing her arms over her chest.</p><p>Mum nods along with her, "And late nights reading." </p><p>"I'm so glad my illness could unite this family," I drawl. "This must be what Beth March feels like right before she dies in <em>Little Women</em>." </p><p>Mum rolls her eyes, "You're not going to die, Eve. It's just a sinus infection. Not even contagious." </p><p>"Then why can't I go downstairs?" </p><p>"Because snot doesn't go well with turkey," she answers. Gran wrinkles her nose but doesn't argue. There are still five days before Christmas Eve, but Gran has already started preparing her turkey. She treats it like it's the last one left in the northern hemisphere, though maybe it is. </p><p>I scowl. "But I want to do something." </p><p>"You can sit right there and study," mum says. She hands me my transfiguration book. "You like studying." </p><p>"Not with a migraine and a runny nose." </p><p>"Maybe the material will bore you to sleep." </p><p>"Ha ha," I say. I hug the book to my chest, my aching, stuffed up chest. "Can I at least watch TV downstairs?" </p><p>"We're not having you snot up the living room. What we don't need in this house is a sick Muggle." Gran's eyes flash to Mum's. "Nonmagic person." </p><p>I turn my surprised inhale into a sneeze...or maybe the cold does that for me. Gran takes a step back, utterly repulsed by sickness while mum hands me a box of tissues I hadn't noticed she'd conjured. "I can't believe we're <em>magic </em>and we don't have a cure for sinus infections. Sure, we can cure a cold but not an infection?" </p><p>"We have chicken soup?" </p><p>"Fine." </p><p>Mum promises to bring me soup and toast in a few minutes. Gran conjures me a mug of cinnamon tea as she leaves. </p><p>"Can you hand me my writing stuff," I ask when mum returns. She settles the food tray across my lap and retrieves the necessary tools. </p><p>"Telling him you're not coming?" Her eyes are on the window like she can see all the way into his bedroom. </p><p>"Yep." </p><p>"Okay." She still isn't completely thrilled with the idea of me dating Draco. I understand: his family openly supported Voldemort and they remain pretentious, rich assholes. At least Draco's allegiances have changed, even if his parents' are still debatable. </p><p>I send Star off with the message, leaving the window slightly cracked and burying myself back in blankets, pillows, and warmth. A few seconds later, Star lands on my mattress, almost dropping Draco's reply in my soup. I unfurl it and groan. In loopy Kelly green ink he's written <em>coming</em>.</p><p>No way. I must look like hell. My head feels as swollen as the top of a mushroom, my body feels and smells like Jabba the Hut's armpit. I move the tray and ease out of bed, shivering as I wobble to the window. </p><p>There he is, striding across the grounds, black overcoat billowing behind him like a cape and white hair shining in the sun. He comes to my window, tilts his head back. </p><p>"Are you going to let down your hair or must I scale the tower myself?" </p><p>I frown at him. "You can't come up. I have a sinus infection and it's contagious." </p><p>He wags a finger at me. "You insult me by lying to me, Eve Rooney. Everyone knows sinus infections are not contagious. Now, shall I conjure a ladder?" </p><p>"No. If you try I'll just lock the window." </p><p>"Then I walk through the front door." </p><p>"My gran will never let you in." </p><p>"I don't care what dragons I have to slay, princess," he says, a fist over his heart. "I will have your hand." </p><p>"First of all, you're ridiculous and cringey. Second of all, you can't have my hand if I don't give it." </p><p>He takes a step closer to the house, gaze on the stone wall. "You know I believe I could climb this without a ladder." </p><p>"At least if you break your neck I don't have to worry about you bothering me." I wince at my own blunt tone.</p><p>"Ouch," he says. </p><p>"Sorry, I have a migraine." </p><p>"That's nothing I can't fix." He begins climbing the wall effortlessly; I guess Quidditch practice is more physical than I thought it was. Soon, he's swinging a leg through my window and stepping inside while I thank God I chose to push the vanity under the other window otherwise he would have crushed my inkwell with his snowy sneaker. I shuffle back, trip over my blanket, and land on my butt. He tips his head back and snickers before helping me to my feet. "Okay?" </p><p>"Fine." I sink on the mattress and gaze up at him, my vision wavering a bit. "I'm sick." </p><p>Draco's eyebrows rise, "Truly?" </p><p>"Be nice to me," I whine. "I'm sick." </p><p>He smirks. "I know you are. That's why I'm here. To cheer you up." </p><p>"I don't need cheering I need an antibiotic." </p><p>"Unfortunately, I left home without one today." </p><p>"Then you're useless to me," I say, letting myself droop over to my side. "Please see yourself out." </p><p>He forces me to scoot over and eases onto the bed next to me, kicking his shoes off before fully stretching out. He crosses his ankles, pillows his head on his hands. </p><p>I roll over and tilt my head so that I can see him without lifting it. "My mum is going to murder us both if she finds you here."</p><p>"We'll be okay. How about I read to you?" </p><p>"What?" Even from this angle, he's attractive. That frustrates me. </p><p>He shrugs, "Sure. That way I can examine the books you borrowed and assess the damage for insurance claims." </p><p>I poke my lip out. "No other reason?" </p><p>"And because a beautiful girl with both a sinus infection and migraine deserves the best entertainment. The Weird Sisters were booked, so I must improvise." He seizes one of the books on my bedside table. "How about...<em>Alice in Wonderland</em>? I didn't realize my family had this." </p><p>"You didn't," I say. "<em>We</em> did. Only read it if you can do the voices." </p><p>He clears his throat, shifting his shoulders. </p><p>"Quietly," I hiss. </p><p>He smirks at me before taking a huge gasping breath. I brace myself for a shout, but instead I hear a near silent murmur. I smack him in the stomach with as much strength as I can muster, which I'm sure feels like a feather landed on his side. He chuckles, and the noise vibrates against my palm. I leave my hand there and rest my head on his chest. </p><p>We're about halfway through the first chapter when I hear feet on the stairs. Normally, I would've jumped away from Draco before my mum could open the door, but with a pounding head and a drippy nose, I can only blink as she stands there in the doorway clutching some magazines. There's a beat of silence. Draco shuts the book, but because I'm half on top of him, he stays still, as if my mother is a predator he has to treat with caution...and judging by the look on her face, sudden movement could be fatal at this particular moment. </p><p>"Mum--" I say, but interrupt myself. </p><p>Her eyes stay on me; their usual bright brown has turned as dark as obsidian. I can almost see the hellfire reflected in them. </p><p>Draco eases out from under my head, sliding a pillow underneath it as he does. He straightens, pink flush in his cheeks. "Where is the loo?" </p><p>"Down the stairs and to your left," Mum says. </p><p>I watch his back retreat because focusing on mum seems like a terrible decision. She shuts the door behind her and leans against it. </p><p>"Why didn't you just ask if he could come here?" </p><p>"I sent him an owl telling him I couldn't come, and then before I knew it he'd climbed through the window." </p><p>Mum stalks past me and glares out the window as if she can conjure up my note and see whether or not I'm lying. </p><p>"I'm sorry," I say. "I tried to make him go away." </p><p>She shakes her head. "I don't trust him, but that doesn't mean you should hide him from me." </p><p>"At least he didn't come in downstairs," I say. "What would've happened if--" But I stop because he could overhear me.</p><p>Mum is frowning. She looks up at the ceiling and then back at me. "I don't want you to keep things from me." </p><p>"I won't--I'm not. Why don't we move downstairs on the couch?" We can't, though, because what if something happens? I can't tell him not to do magic without him getting suspicious, and mum knows that. I can tell by the frustration lining her eyes and corners of her mouth. </p><p>She waves a hand. "It's fine. I trust you. Plus, you're too sick to do anything."</p><p>"Gross."</p><p>She sets the magazines on the side table. "Shout if you need anything." As she leaves, she passes Draco in the hall. "Next time just use the front door." </p><p>"Yes ma'am," he mutters. He makes sure the bedroom door is cracked before settling next to me. </p><p>I offer a smirk. "Good job surviving your first near death experience." </p><p>He lets out a trademark chuckle. "Thank you." </p><p>"How does it feel?" </p><p>"Not good. I think a quiet, boring life is the one for me, thanks." </p><p>I roll my eyes. "You could never be boring." </p><p>"Not as long as I'm with you," he says. </p><p>I pretend to gag. "That is the worst thing I've ever heard." </p><p>"You like it." </p><p>I purse my lips. "Shut up." </p><p>He looks at me for a second, <em>Alice in Wonderland </em>settled on his knees. "You're beautiful." </p><p>I laugh, but my cold makes it sound like a honk. </p><p>"You are," he insists, wrapping one of his arms around my waist and pulling me into his side. "The sinus infection has given you a lovely flushed look, and your hair is just messy enough to be called Vogue." </p><p>"You are shameless," I laugh.</p><p>He smiles that soft, shy smile again, his eyes shining like mirrors. "You're beautiful without the illness, as well, you know." His voice is earnest though the words are playful.</p><p>My laughter stops, replaced by an uncomfortable fluttering in my chest. </p><p>He seems confused by my confusion. "Of course you are. Looking at you is like looking at the moon." </p><p>"Not the sun?" </p><p>"No," he shakes his head. He suddenly looks like a man who has waded into the middle of a fast current. "It's like--like looking at you doesn't hurt. You glow, constantly, but it isn't obtrusive or anything. Sometimes you look at me with those brown eyes and I just have to stare. I don't have a choice." He stops, examining his hands. </p><p>The silence would have been lovely had I not been forced, right in that moment, to sniff powerfully to keep snot from dribbling all over the place. He passes me a tissue and I trumpet into it. "Sorry for ruining your moment." </p><p>He smirks halfheartedly. "You can't help it." </p><p>"No," I say. I want to take his hand and squeeze it, but I just emptied my sinuses into a tissue in front of him. So I say. "No one has ever complemented me like that." </p><p>He blinks rapidly as if someone has just told him the sun actually does revolve around the earth. </p><p>"No one," I repeat. </p><p>Draco seems to recover; his eyes brighten mischievously. </p><p>I raise a brow, a different sort of flutter in my chest now. "What?" </p><p>He grins fiercely, a wicked gleam chasing the mischief out of his eyes. "When you're better I'm going to kiss you so hard you see stars." </p><p>I feel a blush rising and wish I could dunk my face in the snow. "Um." He's still looking at me, and I don't know what to say. "Okay." </p><p>His laughter makes my heart flip. </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 10</h2></a>
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    <p>I let the warm cider warm my hands through my knit mittens as I stand at the edge of the crowd. White fairy lights are strung from roof to roof across the lane, and tiny baubles dangle from the spaces between the bulbs. They've blocked traffic off from this street, so the throng of celebrating Muggles has overtaken the whole thing. Booths trimmed with tinsel and garland line the street, their merry proprietors shouting to friends and attempting to sell their wares to pedestrians. Somewhere a band is playing renditions of Christmas carols. The delicious scent of mince pie hangs in the air. </p><p>Gran and Granddad went home about thirty minutes ago, leaving me to third wheel with Mum and Ben as they rove hand in hand from stall to stall picking over desserts, drinks, and potential stocking stuffers. I pleaded residual sinus infection weakness ten minutes ago, and have been enjoying tentative sips of cider on a bench since. Well, until leather gloves cover my eyes and throw my heart into hyperdrive. Luckily, the shock makes me freeze, or I would have sloshed piping hot liquid all over my turtleneck. </p><p>"Surprised?" His voice is crushed velvet in my ear. </p><p>"No," I lie. </p><p>Draco removes his hands and slides onto the bench next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He nudges my foot with his leather boot. "Muggles got you down?" </p><p>"Not at all. I just needed a break from mum and her boyfriend." He knows about Ben...just not, well, all about Ben. </p><p>His nose wrinkles. "Mushy?" </p><p>"Extravagantly so," I tell him. I sip my cider. </p><p>"Why didn't you go to the wizard carnival then?" </p><p>I frown at him. "Lower your voice." </p><p>"Ah, c'mon Eve." He waves a hand at the people behind us who are currently laughing into huge tankards of golden beer. "That has to be their fiftieth tonight, and the moon is still high in the sky. They won't notice a bit of magic." </p><p>"Sure they will. Then you'll be expelled, and your father will have your hide." I meant it as a joke, but he blanches momentarily before recovering his smooth smirk. </p><p>He shrugs, "And all to impress a pretty lady." </p><p>I drink my cider. "I can meet you there? I just have to tell mum." </p><p>"She doesn't like me, does she?" </p><p>"You did sneak through my window." </p><p>"I thought it was romantic," he says, holding up his palms in surrender. "But I also didn't think you were ready to introduce me." </p><p>I purse my lips. "She'll like you eventually she's just...not used to the idea of you. And she's a bit preoccupied right now." </p><p>"Bringing home a new guy for Christmas must be hard," he says sagely. </p><p>I nod and finish my cider, standing. "Meet you in the bookshop?" </p><p>"I'll be the one reading about Morgana." </p><p>I smile as I hurry into the throng. I dart in and out of openings, scanning faces and height and clothes before finally spotting my mother's hot pink, knee-length wool coat. She's dancing to "White Christmas" with Ben, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her waist. They spin slowly. I wait until the song changes to a fast one before approaching.</p><p>"Hey Ben can I steal mum for a second?" </p><p>"Sure thing, Eve, I was just about to find some water." He looks flushed and happy. </p><p>"I think I saw them at that tent," I say, pointing across the square. He nods gratefully and scuttles away. I turn to mum as soon as I'm sure he's out of earshot. "Draco invited me to the Christmas festival." </p><p>She exhales slowly, crinkles around her eyes disappearing as her face grows serious. "Okay. And you're going?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"But you wanted to tell me first?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>She looks pleased. "Okay. Thank you." </p><p>"May I go?" </p><p>Her eyebrows rise. "Sure." </p><p>"Thank you." </p><p>She catches my wrist as I turn to leave. "I appreciate you not attempting to hide him from me." </p><p>"I was never going to hide him," I say. "That was just a fluke moment." </p><p>She nods, "I believe you." </p><p>"I wish you liked him." </p><p>"There isn't a space for me to get to know him," she says. "We can't have him over, and you know I'm not setting foot in that house." I nod. She releases my wrist with a sigh. "Go. Have fun." </p><p>I find Draco in the back of the bookshop, sitting on the floor with his legs stretched in front of him, book in hand. He smiles up at me, "Hello." </p><p>"Hi," I say, suddenly flustered. This is our first date; the dinner before we really knew each other doesn't count. As he taps the book with his wand, I study him out of the corner of my eye. There's a pink flush in his cheeks. His eyelashes are longer and blacker than I thought they were. His hair, free of product today, flops slightly over an eye. His lips purse as my eyes sweep over them. </p><p>"Like what you see?" </p><p>"I was wishing you looked like Johnny Depp." </p><p>"I could go brunette if you'd like." </p><p>We step through the opening and he takes my hand to lead me through the semidarkness. Our shoes are the only sound on the packed earth floor, and for a second I imagine what it would feel like to have my back against the stone wall, my hands in his hair. I've never done anything like that with anyone, and the idea of it makes my cheeks warm. I desperately press the thought down to stifle the blush creeping over my whole face as we emerge in the light of the wizard village. </p><p>String lights glimmer from roofs, just like the Muggle village, but the village and its residents' magic is palpable though no one is casting spells. Witches and wizards are in their best garb; jewel toned cloaks trimmed with fur or metallic foil or even beaded fringe. Some wear tall pointed hats, some have feathers stuck in their caps, and some prefer lolling stocking caps with massive pompons on the end. A group of wizards reel by with bottles of butterbeer. Every shop has its door propped open; buttery, sugary, spicy smells waft from different bakeries and pubs, giving the entire carnival a wonderful perfume. If I could have bottled it, I would've. Kids prank one another with joke shop finds. We mill past a local choir singing carols and look at the different toys and sweets and things for sale. To my surprise, Draco stops at a shop with a silver toy carousel in the window. Minutes later, we're inside and he's asking the clerk about it. </p><p>The shop itself is a dream. Sandy colored wooden shelves line the store crammed full of brightly colored, magical toys. Blimps and planes and small hot air balloons float near the ceiling, forming a rainbow canopy. The floor is painted like a puzzle with a few pieces missing. I've wandered to a shelf in the back full of more outdated toys; Cabbage Patch dolls that really walk, Spinning Tops that spin on their own, Magic Eight Balls that tell real fortunes. A few Smurf figurines grin up at me from their shiny packaging and I smile back. Mum and I used to watch the Smurfs after school everyday. It was one of many traditions laid aside once she went back to work after dad left. I pick up a Smurfette figurine off the shelf and flip over the package to see what it does; never buy a magical doll without first figuring out what its abilities are. We learned that the hard way with my Teddy Ruxpin doll. </p><p>Rustling behind me announces Draco's presence just before his apple and mahogany scent envelops me. He gazes over my shoulder at the toy as I examine its instructions. "Find something?" </p><p>"Yeah, for my mum." </p><p>"Big Smurfette fan?" </p><p>"She and I loved her when I was five." I turn to face him, having ascertained that this particular figurine is only able to move six inches from her original position in any direction while dancing to the show's theme song. "We watched the show all the time." </p><p>He shrugs. "Nostalgia is always a good way to go." He lifts the package in his hand. "I did the same."</p><p>"The carousel?"</p><p>"My mum used to have one like this in her room when I was little. One of her friends broke it when I was eight." </p><p>I raise my eyebrows. "How?" </p><p>"Nasty argument. He levitated it and threw it at Mum's chest. Mum blocked and shattered the mirror on her vanity instead. Some of the glass cut me." He points at his cheek where a thin unobtrusive scar mars the smooth skin. </p><p>I bite my lower lip, unsure of what to say. I find it hard to believe Lucius Malfoy allows his wife to have friendships with other men, especially ones so close that they have arguments in her bedroom. I must show my suspicion on my face because Draco mutters: </p><p>"I shouldn't have dropped that on you." </p><p>"It's fine."  </p><p>"I should have picked a better moment." His eyes are on the floor so I can't read the emotions in them, but his voice is harsh; he's panicking and already blaming himself. </p><p>I can't argue with his statement, though; talking about childhood trauma in the middle of a toyshop is probably not the best. Especially not if this is meant to be your first date. I pay for the figurine quickly and make my way out of the shop with Draco trailing behind. I wait for him to catch up and slip my hand into his. "Sorry." </p><p>"Don't worry about it," he says. </p><p>But I do. I've always known Lucius was a shit dad and husband, and I'd entertained the abusive monster scenario, but imagining it is different than having it vaguely confirmed. "I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me." </p><p>He stops on the street and turns to me. "I know I can talk to you," he says, but his voice is scrubbed clean of feeling now. "I just. I shouldn't have sprung that on you so early in...this." </p><p>Warmth creeps up my neck. "Later, then." </p><p>That soft smile is back. "Later." </p><p>We walk up the street hand in hand, following the sound of music. We weave through couples and groups, careful not to bump into swarms of squealing children or step on various extravagant cloaks. Finally, the crowd thins and we are confronted with couples slow dancing in a wide semicircle as a local band plays "Blue Christmas" on a stage. Before I know it, Draco has pulled me into the circle. His gray eyes shine in the soft white lighting of the fairy lights above us, and they're so clear and open that I can't take it. I move close and press against him as we begin to swirl with the other dancers, preferring to listen to his heart speed instead of seeing the happiness above. It scares me. It's too much, too fast. I tell myself to calm down, that I do want there to be a later. Yet part of me thinks that we're getting close too quickly, and it fills me with a sense of foreboding that I try to shake off as we spin. </p><p>The lead singer of the band leans into the microphone. "Alright, everyone. One last song to close it down."</p><p>The first notes of "Baby It's Cold Outside" make me smile. I lean back to look at Draco, pressing my anxiety into a tight manageable ball. "This is my mum's favorite." </p><p>He grins. "It's my mum's, too." He whirls me into a few fast steps. </p><p><em>Of course he's a good dancer</em>, I think. <em>I would expect nothing less from an English gentleman living in the countryside. </em>He spins me around the semicircle, deftly guiding me through a medley of steps. At the height of the crescendo, he dips me. On the last note, every fairy light in the village winks out as fireworks explode in the black sky above us. He lifts me out of the dip, and I stare upwards. Wizard firecrackers are amazing; shimmering green dragons unfurl across the sea of stars, spewing red and gold flames as they're chased by knights on crystal white horses. A golden sun curtsies to a silver moon as false stars wheel around them. The crowd is cheering. I feel Draco's fingers on my chin, pulling it down to his level. Colors flash across his face as he brings his mouth to mine. </p><p>I thought kissing him would be like pressing my lips to marble. Like trying to coax warmth from icy stone. I was wrong. </p><p>Kissing him is like racing downhill at full speed with no brakes. Kissing him is like flying on a broomstick for the first time; you might fall off and it's really going to hurt if you do, but you can't quite bring yourself to stop. Kissing him is like pressing your face into silk, like dipping a toe into a bubblebath, like flipping to the cool side of the pillow.  </p><p>I'm sure I'm sloppy. I've never done this before so I must be sloppy, but I can't even think about what to do. All those <em>Teen Witch</em> tips and tricks for kissing boys have swirled down the drain with my other thoughts. His fingertips brush my cheeks as he brings both hands to my face, and I sling my arms around his neck because what else am I supposed to do with them? </p><p>It lasts for maybe three seconds, but it feels like we've been there for hours. When he breaks away and I open my eyes, the band has started an encore for "All I Want for Christmas Is You" and the fireworks continue to explode overhead, but those are just a backdrop for his moon-white face, those glinting silver eyes. He's studying me, looking nervous yet pleased with himself. </p><p>I blink. Grin. Wrap my hand around his Slytherin scarf and pull him down. "Again." </p><p>He obliges. </p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. 11</h2></a>
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    <p>Mum is in the kitchen when I come down the next morning. Draco insisted that he take me to breakfast which means I had to get up early to style my hair, dab on some makeup, and select an outfit that's comfy and warm yet stylish. I opted for a chunky knit sweater tucked into baggy jeans and a cool black belt. He should be here soon; I lean against the counter. </p><p>"How was the rest of last night?" </p><p>"Good," mum answers. "You were already in bed when we came in." She cracks two eggs into a pan, flicking her wand to turn on the eye; Ben must be upstairs in bed. </p><p>"Yeah after the fireworks, we walked around a little longer but there wasn't too much to do." We'd gotten hot chocolate and kissed between sips. </p><p>"Ben and I hit the pub for post-carnival chips." </p><p>My stomach grumbles. "Ugh, I wish we'd done that." Chocolate kisses though? Amazing. Wouldn't trade those for anything. </p><p>"Breakfast date I assume?' </p><p>"Yeah. Draco says he knows this great place a street over from the coffee shop in the other village." </p><p>She shuffles her feet a bit, slippers scraping the tile. "And he's picking you up here?" </p><p>"Yes." My voice is already tense though I try to keep it smooth; I can already tell where this conversation is headed. </p><p>Mum watches the eggs. "I've been thinking. I don't think you should date him." </p><p>"You just don't know him," I say. "You haven't spent any time with him." </p><p>"I know enough," she shoots back, voice like steel. "The other mums at work discuss their kids' letters over lunch, and I've heard the stories. That boy got a Hippogriff beheaded just because he messed up the etiquette ritual. He calls the Muggle born students slurs." </p><p>"That's just an act! He told me so himself. His dad is awful, mum." I think of the scar on his cheek, wondering again why it wasn't magically healed or something. "I think he's the one who pushed for Buckbeak to be killed. Draco was fine after a day in the hospital wing." </p><p>Mum's face is stone above her sizzling eggs. "I am well aware that his father is a terrible person, Eve Rooney." </p><p>I bite my tongue. </p><p>"He supported Voldemort at his height. He led outrageous rallies in the Ministry buildings." She glances at me. "He was responsible for allowing Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards to be brutally attacked and murdered. I think I have a very good picture of Mr. Lucius Malfoy and his son." </p><p>"Draco isn't like that!" </p><p>"He hasn't proved it. Wasn't he responsible for getting Hagrid hauled off to Azkaban? I would bet my yearly salary that his malice toward Hagrid stems from that man's parentage. And don't even get me started on his behavior when the Chamber of Secrets was open. You wrote that he harassed Muggle born students for weeks." </p><p>"It's an act," I insist. </p><p>"You told me yourself that he didn't know your name, and you come from a pureblood family." </p><p>I chew my bottom lip, watching her sprinkle cheese into her omelette. "What's your point?" </p><p>"From what I've heard, this boy is not only selfish and narcissistic, he's also a bigot. You will not settle for him." </p><p>"Oh my God," I say, voice rising. "I am not <em>settling </em>for him. He's different than his parents. He was twelve when he did those things." </p><p>"That hippogriff incident happened last year. Is a year enough time to change?" </p><p>"He is different. He's against house elves working without pay--" </p><p>"So he's against slavery and that's enough for you to fall?" </p><p>"I haven't fallen!" </p><p>"Eve, you hate mornings, yet here you are, dressed and ready to walk out the door into the icy dawn for a boy who didn't know your name a few days ago." </p><p>"That means I'm interested, not that I'm in love," I snarl. "And look at you! You met Ben in September and decided it was okay to drag him to a family Christmas with people he <em>barely </em>knows." </p><p>"Do not," she says, turning to face me. For a second I think the fury in her face might melt the spatula might melt in her hand. "Do not use that choice to deflect. It is not monumental to bring a boyfriend home for Christmas." </p><p>"It is if that boyfriend is a Muggle and your family is magical," I snap. "It puts too much strain on us. You should have taken him home the minute we pulled up and you saw the anxiety on Gran's face." </p><p>"You were supposed to be on my side." </p><p>"I am on your side, but I warned you from the beginning that this would be bad." </p><p>"The only reason things have gotten more stressful is because that boy," she points viciously at the door, "has been sneaking around this house." </p><p>"He has not been sneaking around." </p><p>"So a different boy snuck into your room?" </p><p>"That was once, and I apologized and you accepted it." </p><p>The only sound in the room is the snap of the eggs. She turns back to them and flips the omelette over with some difficulty. "I did." </p><p>"I don't know what you want me to say, mother," I say, crossing to the front door. I'd rather wait outside in the freezing cold than endure this argument any longer. Someone is about to get seriously wounded, and I can't tell if it'll be me or her. I throw on my jacket and pull the door open, "Is it, "I'm only dating him to keep him happy and away from your Muggle boyfriend so his mum won't find out?"" I scoff and walk out, hands in my coat pockets, and crash right into a forest green sweater. </p><p>I stumble back against the door, gazing up into Draco's face; his eyes are glittering and his mouth is fixed in a terrible scowl. </p><p><em>Oh no</em>. "Draco--" </p><p>He holds up a gloved hand and backs away. Wind tousles his hair. </p><p>"Draco, wait--" </p><p>"It's fine," he says. He disappears down the drive, and when I step back inside, I smell mum's eggs burning. </p><p> </p>
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